While slurping my healing lunchtime pho in February 2017, I figured I’d buy my self a gift for surviving chemotherapy. Six months of nausea deserves at least a hot hatch, maybe a muscle car, and researching cars was a solid distraction from both my mortality and my masters program.

A rainy day in March, I test drove a Camaro. Beautiful car, some sort of anniversary edition in bright blue with a brown leather interior. First car I drove with a rev matching manual, which was fun, even though it felt like cheating. It was as hard to see out of as I had been led to believe, which may be due to my odd shape. I’m just over 6′ but have short legs. Combined with a low pressure salesman it was on the list.

I later test drove a Volkswagen GTI. I intended to test drive a Golf R, but the VW dealer wasn’t going to let that happen. The GTI was fun, nimble, useful, but I hesitated due to the fact it was freshly criminal organization. The dealer even reminded me of that when I entered, as my initial greeting was “You here to get rid of your criminally polluting diesel?” or words to that effect.

Another chemo treatment later and Focus RSs were showing up on lots after the initial pre-order rush. I visited the nearest dealer with my wife and son. Salesman happily tossed me the keys and we went for a test drive. It was the same test route that they had used when I test drove the SVT Contour, only it was much more fun. The RS reminded me of my old GSXR, a built for purpose weapon with a smirk of arrogance. It knew it was a better car than I was a driver. I went back later to negotiate in the most traditional and painful way of waiting that discussing than waiting. During one waiting period, the anti-nausea drugs started to wear off. I got some water, and informed the salesman that I was going to have to go. I must have looked as bad as I felt, as he and the sales manager seemed genuinely concerned. I motored home, and bought the car the next day.

I really enjoyed that RS. Every drive was an adventure, the Nitrous Blue sparkled in the sun, and the thing snorted and gripped and snarled on demand. I signed up for the performance driving school day in Tooele, Utah that was offered as a free option with the car. The following July, we flew out to visit my wife’s family in northern New Mexico, then rented a car and took a few days driving to Mesa Verde, Moab, and Salt Lake City. Despite my slowness, the driving school was top notch, professionally run, and made me realize that even a few hours with a driving coach could make me faster than any bolt on performance part. Any manufacturer that sells a performance vehicle should offer an opportunity like the program offered by Ford.

The same level of professionalism was not top of mind for the head gasket team at the Ford Assembly plant in the Alsace Lorraine. The Focus’ coolant level was dropping, and it started to run a little hot. Then I got the dreaded headgasket notice, and took it to the dealer. Four weeks of hating life behind a loaner Focus SE (with the cursed DCT transmission) later and I finally got the blue car back. It ran ok. I’m not sure if it was just an internal bias, but it wasn’t the same. The start/stop stopped working (no big deal, but it worked before). A few months later, I took a short trip to the corner store and the coolant temperature needle pegged into the H zone and it shut down. I let it cool down, then limped it the block home. I filled it with more distilled water than I thought necessary, and scheduled an appointment with the dealer (it was oil change time anyway). The service writer said, yeah, nothing to worry about. All good. And here’s a “how start/stop works for total idiots” cheat sheet.

I was not satisfied with the level of service. And, when I popped the hood when I got home, I didn’t even look like they used a funnel when they changed the oil.

So what to do. I really enjoyed that car, and my son really enjoyed riding in it. I planned on it being his car when he got older. What was up with the car? Why don’t I trust the dealer? I really didn’t want to get into an eternal battle with the Ford dealership.

Cancer again guided the response. About a year before, my wife had been laid off her job, and collected a severance payout sufficient that she could take a year off, be active in my son’s final year in elementary school. Her return to the workforce was delayed due to her cancer diagnosis. I figured it was time to exercise some fiscal responsibility. The inherited Mercedes became a daily driver and I sold the RS through Carvana in a reasonably painless process.